My name is Emily Carter, and there’s one moment I will never erase from my memory—the day my brother-in-law arrived at my sister’s funeral with his mistress wrapped around his arm.
The church in our small Texas town was heavy with the scent of white lilies and low, murmured prayers. At the front sat my sister Lily’s closed casket. She had been thirty-two weeks pregnant when she supposedly “fell” down the stairs. That was Jason’s explanation. A tragic accident. Nothing more.
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